My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. ” “Believe me that I have answered you wisely,” she said, in a gentler tone, “wisely for you too, as well as myself.
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